


even the stars they burn

by scribblscrabbl



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Dark World compliant, Loki Does What He Wants, M/M, Shapeshifting!Loki, Thor is smarter than he lets on, feels and lots of them, no spoilers I can think of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-23
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2018-01-02 10:51:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblscrabbl/pseuds/scribblscrabbl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jane Foster has no power or permanence where Loki's concerned, or so he tells himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	even the stars they burn

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the Chris Evans cameo and fueled by my need to deconstruct the shit out of this pairing. Could be interpreted as a missing scene. Haven't posted in this fandom in, let's just say ages, so here goes. Feedback appreciated!

Loki sits at the bow of the vessel, steeled against the winds of Svartalfheim that he’s been told never cease to rage. He had passed through this world only once before and unintentionally, after hurtling off the Bifrost. If he’d had a choice then, he would’ve taken the scenic route. 

Most call it the land of the dead, where nothing takes root and nothing thrives. Centuries have seen it desolate and, he imagines, centuries more will follow suit. He looks out from his resting place and sees grey upon grey, tastes it in his mouth, the ash and dust of a place forsaken. 

He rises then, weary of the sight and the silence, and slowly makes his way towards the bow, shifting his equilibrium with the wind. Thor’s nodded off at the helm, brows drawn and jaw clenched as though he hunts his foes even in sleep, wielding a hero complex with more heft than his hammer. In his mind the world is simple, truths are pure, and morality absolute. As children it was a conviction Loki envied. Now he finds it equally naïve and sanctimonious.

He stands over Thor and studies the minute fluttering of his eyelids, an erratic rhythm indicative of a weakness infecting his heart. 

The woman is pale and unconscious still, one hand pillowing her cheek and the other reaching towards Thor. Rumors trickle like rain through crevices it never intended to reach. They say Thor has not been himself, that when he is not roaming Odin’s halls, lost and heartsick, he is seeking solace in Heimdall’s vigil. 

Loki treads lightly, ghosting a hand over the length and breadth of Thor’s arm. The energy makes him shiver, electric in the way he remembers. And then he finds what he’s looking for, a sickness that coils and flows, not unlike the Aether. Chaos collapsing into symmetry then scattering again. It poses no serious threat, of that he’s certain. Centuries have taught him that Time wears down the resilience of all things. Rivers dry, mountains diminish, gods fall, and so he needs only the patience to let Time run its course.

And yet—he finds himself moving to straddle his brother’s thighs, blood hot with the kind of madness best contained and subdued in an impenetrable cell, lest it ignite another war.

Thor stirs at the movement and wakes with some effort, eyes cloudy with sleep. Loki holds fast to his illusion, a tenuous verisimilitude built on a day’s worth of study that would serve its purpose. He had always been Frigga’s brightest pupil.

“ _Jane_.” Thor expels a breath, awareness creeping slowly and settling more slowly still. The name is soft on his tongue, warm with a depth of feeling that disarms Loki for a moment, drawing him into the obscurity between reality and memory.

Then a hand finds his hip and the sureness of it drives him forward, until he’s kissing Thor, fitting their mouths together none too gently. Thor concedes easily, giving Loki free rein and so he takes, greedily, dipping his tongue in to reacquaint himself with his brother’s heat, swallowing it down towards cold, alien places. He inhales a bright scent made sharper by the wind, reminiscent of clear nights that afforded a sprawling view of the heavens, so unhindered as to make it easy to believe they were sitting on the highest boughs of Yggdrasil. 

Thor tightens his grip then and rolls his hips with such single-minded determination that Loki drags his mouth away to arch his spine and meet his brother halfway, a ruined, pitiful sound escaping his throat. Thor reaches out to draw him in with a hand curled around his nape, fingers combing through thick, brown hair before tracing the delicate shell of his ear and then framing his face. Thor’s eyes follow the path of his thumb along the feminine curve of Loki's mouth, as if seeking the truths that would remain after all else has abandoned him. 

“You taste as sweet as summer’s wine.” The words resonate with the sound of distant thunder. “Brother.”

Loki's breath falters, heart quickening for the length of time it takes him to cast off his illusion. His hands, still chained at the wrists, fall against Thor’s chest.

“You’re learning.” He smiles even as his mind works to isolate the moment of realization.

Thor’s eyes are half-lidded with intent veiled too cleverly for his liking, mouth too silent, too knowing. And suddenly he feels their roles reversed, his heart laid bare in Thor’s waiting palm.

“Must everything be a game to you?” Thor releases his hold on Loki but remains watchful. 

“Only when I like my chances.” 

There’s hope where there was none before, that Thor would choose this moment to seize him by the throat and demand an earnest answer. 

He’s met with silence, interrupted only by the winds that never cease to rage.


End file.
